“Many an afternoon I would while away my time in the Louvre,” said Codling, tossing his head slightly to remove his fringe from his eyes. “I would sit there, pondering the many possible pharmacological treatments for my malaise, little knowing that the art surrounding me was the true cure.”

“Great art is so uplifting,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“That’s how I feel about Groovejet,” said Codling, catching and holding his companion’s gaze.

Ellis-Bextor’s face reddened to a colour ever-so-slightly pinker than bright white. “Well that was primarily Spiller’s work, you know.”

“Not at all,” replied Codling. “It’s the vocals that bring the humanity to the music. It’s that which touches the heart. It’s that which affirms one’s faith in mankind.”

“Spiller asked me to try and make my voice as emotive as possible,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“Is she banging on about fucking Groovejet again,” said William Shakespeare, strolling towards their table, voluminous breeches rustling with each step. “Sorry if she’s boring the tits off you, mate. She goes on and on about that fucking record. I tell her I’ll stick my boot up her arse if I hear the name Spiller one more fucking time, but she doesn’t listen.”

“On the contrary,” said Neil Codling. “It’s a topic that greatly interests me.”

“Well you don’t get it day-in, day-out, do you? It would be a topic that would piss you right off then, I can tell you.”

“Where have you been?” asked Ellis-Bextor, with overcompensatory enthusiasm.

“Well there’s a story,” said Shakespeare, brightly. “I have been at Cimitiere de Montparnasse. And do you know what I found there?”